


Hearts On Fire

by theheadandthekin



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mention of sex, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4873555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheadandthekin/pseuds/theheadandthekin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their time apart, Abbie and Ichabod learn a little about being with other people. (Mind the pairing tags; Ichabbie endgame, but they have relationships with other folks.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**1\. Abbie.**

By the time Jenny asks—demands—a picture of her new guy, Abbie’s graduated to really kinda liking him.

But when she sends off the snapshot of Daniel grinning and pretending to hold up the Washington Monument, Jenny doesn’t text back; she calls.

The first thing Abbie hears on the other end of the line is a short laugh, followed by, “Well, that’s a 180.”

“Not having this conversation.” 

“Oh, come on,” Jenny laughs again. “His arms are the size of your legs. I was expecting, I dunno, a little skinnier, a little more lumbersexual.”

“I don’t even know what that means, Jenny.”

“White dudes. With beards, long hair. Boots.”

“Nope.” And that is all she has to say about it. Whatever her feelings had been for Crane, she’d moved on. He’d left Sleepy Hollow over five months ago without a word—a _real_ word. The last text he’d sent was short, almost cold, but it indicated he was leaving by choice and thanked her not to worry.

At least he’d found the courage to do that much.

“You miss him, though, don’t you?”

 _Like a hole in the head,_ Abbie thinks. But there is no point in lying to her sister, who would just press until she got to the truth. “Of course I do.”

“I know, I know. Don’t let the past drag you down. You’re living the dream. Although I have to say: Agent Reynolds … damn, girl.”

Just like that, Abbie feels her giddiness return. Screw Crane. “He’s pretty amazing, Jenny. His mom’s coming down from Maryland this weekend—she heads a foundation for at-risk kids in Baltimore. Usually I’d be nervous, but she just seems like a great person, you know? And he’s got it so together, she must’ve raised him right.”

“It could maybe get serious then. So, what happens when you get assigned to the field?”

Liking Daniel a _lot_ didn’t mean they’d had that kind of conversation. “One foot in front of the other. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“You’re meeting his mom, Abbie. C’mon.”

“We haven’t talked about it. I haven’t dated for almost two years. Give me a little time to get used to the idea.”

“Abs,” Jenny hesitates. “Look, you’ve always been so independent. Just, God, I admire you, and I’m going to sound like an asshole for even saying this because you seem so happy, but don’t sell yourself short. You were _chosen_ —”

“Jenny,” Abbie warns.

“I hate you sometimes, but you deserve greatness in everything. _Everything._ Make sure this Reynolds guy knows it.”

* * *

Daniel Reynolds knows something about greatness. He’s skilled, smooth with just the right amount of the winking irony of post-feminist masculinity, and so at ease with himself. Nothing’s a threat; everything’s an opportunity. The world is his damn oyster.

The Harvard degree and the handsome face help. But he spends Saturday afternoons with his Little Brother, Jon, and goes to church with his sister and her husband on Sundays. He also wants more than the FBI—maybe even elected office, he confides in her one hazy morning.

Abbie jokes that he wants to be like Cory Booker. He, in turn, tells her about having lunch with “Cory” when he was mayor of Newark. They have mutual friends.

She hates how much at that moment he reminds her of Crane.

And forgets as soon as his hand slides over her hip.

As deliberately as everything else Daniel does, he _woos_ Abbie. He plans dates, cooks her dinner (and breakfast), tells her she’s smart and beautiful without drama or fuss. He also leaves her alone, respects her space, her privacy. He does the opposite of barging into her life: he knocks politely on the door and asks if he can come in.

Abbie invites him.

In a life that’s made her work so hard for everything, the movie-like qualities of their budding relationship are a revelation.

Until one quiet night in August, with evening sunlight streaming through the windows of Daniel’s V Street townhouse. She hums, stirring a simmering pan of sauce on his stove and waiting for Daniel to hop out of the shower. For a terrifying moment, the bubbling red liquid seems to start moving on its own— _it looks like blood_ —and she grasps for her sidearm.

_No.  
_

_It’s over._

_Done._

She switches off the burner and forces her gaze forward, to a neutral point on the far wall of the dining area.

When Daniel moves silently into the kitchen and rests a hand on her shoulder, she jumps. “You okay, baby?” 

Abbie blows out a long breath. “Yeah. Just got a little, I dunno, transfixed. I’m cool.”

He kisses the top of her head. “Smells delicious.”

Except it _doesn't._

It’s then that the strange unease she’d felt for months crystallizes into a clear thought: this is a beautiful life, but it isn’t hers. Not at all.

“I’m sorry, Daniel” is all she says before she grabs her things and flees to the Metro.


	2. Chapter 2

**2\. Ichabod.**

Although technically his first stop, Crane wants desperately to stay in Oxford. It’s chilly and damp and the closest he’s felt to home since he left England nearly 240 years ago. The university is changed slightly, but looks much the same.

It’s even blessedly free of Starbucks.

He’d written to the university archives before leaving the United States, requesting all information about both him and his father. He didn’t really expect to hear anything, but assuredly did not expect to be flagged down on the sidewalk outside the hostel he’d found the night before.

A round gentleman in a tweed jacket sticks out a hand and introduces himself as a Mr. Howard Stone, staff member at Bodley.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Ichabod Crane.”

After a silent, brisk walk and minor administrative fuss, he’s ushered by Mr. Stone into a small reading room in the Tower of the Five Orders in Bodleian Library. Four leather-bound volumes rest in book cradles on a heavy table so large that his host is nearly pressed against the wall opposite the door.

“Welcome back to Oxford, Ichabod Crane. I’m Dr. Mary Goodell, Keeper of the University Archives and Deputy Librarian. We have much to show you.”

She walks him through the books on the table—18th century student and college records. His eyes immediately find his name, signed by his own hand, on the student register of 1768.

“I am happy to show you the records from your father, if those are still of interest.”

He’s felt overwhelmed many times in this century, but nothing has quite prepared him for this moment.

“Your father left several personal effects, in addition to papers, for the university. We can assist you in reviewing those items. Unfortunately, his Oxfordshire house is lost, but the home in Dumfriesshire is preserved and awaits your return. The current tenants will be pleased to meet the owner.”

Crane pulls up even straighter; it feels strange without his heavy coat. “Owner?”

“Yes, we made appropriate arrangements once we heard from you. Late, that.” She levels a pointed look at Crane. “Just a small correction to the records. And records-keeping is, of course, our business.”

She hands him a much newer leather volume she’d been holding during their discussion, open to a page with his name at the top.

“We did our best to convert your previous degrees and positions to rough modern equivalents. There were, of course, no research doctorates when you were a student, and only so much is plausible these days for a man of 33. Even one as bright as you.”

He runs his fingers along the page, taking in the details of the impressive forgery of his modern life.

“All of this should make things much easier for you now, of course, and you retain all rights and privileges of alumni. We have copies of your 1982 birth certificate and full academic records, should they ever be needed. Your thesis research director has, unfortunately, passed away, and was very poor at keeping records of students. Alas.”

Even though Dr. Goodell’s excessive assertions of certainty are starting to grate, he smirks at that.

“This wasn’t all completed in less than a fortnight. Locating all of these records alone would have taken weeks. You know I’m a Witness,” he ventures.

“Of course.”

* * *

He wishes (not for the first time) that this were a journey he could take with Abbie. He wishes he could share what’s he’s discovered with her. The phone in his pants pocket tempts him. Would a photograph of one of the books do any harm?

But he knows he mustn’t allow himself to reach for her interest, her approval, her care; she’s far better off without him. At least until he can stand fully on his own.

* * *

The archivist’s assistant—a DPhil student in history from Jamaica named Sara—takes an immediate interest in him.

When she delivers the third armful of books to him in the reading room, she inquires how long he will be in Oxford. When he doesn’t know the answer, she brazenly invites him out for a pint.

He goes.

It’s easy, how he falls back into the rhythms of academic life.

It’s easy, how he falls into Sara’s bed.

The morning after, she introduces him to post-colonialism, and smiles—her face transforming into a magnificent heart—at him over the tiny table on her terrace as he turns the pages of a worn copy of _The Wretched of the Earth._

“Oh my God, your _eyebrows_.”

In response, he simply arches one higher.

“This alone makes the extra fee for the terrace worth it.”

He closes the book and places it carefully next to his tea. Surely he should take full advantage of living in this fantasy, however long it may last. “I believe, Miss Sara, that Fanon can wait.”

She takes his meaning and pulls him back inside her flat.

For a brief moment with her back turned, his treacherous mind can only see this petite woman with dark skin as Abbie Mills.

Only later, alone in the library with the ephemera of his old life, does he admit to himself that he fucked her from behind that morning so he could keep pretending she was the woman he’d left behind in Sleepy Hollow.

* * *

After three weeks in Oxford and a thorough introduction to the modern notion of “hooking up”, he considers inviting Sara to Scotland. Her interest is lively and uncomplicated, and her backside is quite lovely.

He doesn’t, though. To his relief, she’s as casual about him leaving as she was about inviting him out that first day in the library.

Sara kisses him on the cheek. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Ichabod.”

“Thank you. All the best of luck to you.”

When he’s a few steps down the sidewalk, he hears her call to this back. His heart seizes as he turns, hoping this doesn’t drag out.

But she just smiles and crosses her arms. “I just have to say it before you're off. You should really think about giving shorter hair a go. I think it’d look smashing.”


	3. Chapter 3

**3\. Abbie.**

Abbie and Daniel meet for lunch the next day. 

“I’m not taking it personally,” he says before the waiter has even filled their water glasses. “Unless it is. But I feel like you would’ve told me already if it were.”

“I’m sorry I ran out without an explanation. I … yeah.” 

She hates this. Communicating stuff is not her strong suit. And she definitely doesn’t want him thinking she’s crazy, since that’s a quick trip out of the FBI.

He lets her collect her thoughts.

“Look, you’re great,” she says, as matter-of-factly as she can. ‘Stressed’ is better than ‘imagining demons in saucepans.’ “This is just a _lot._ I’ve got a lot of … demons. Baggage. I haven’t had the best of luck with relationships, plus a career change, a new city ….”

“Abbie.” He reaches across the table and curls a hand around hers. “We can take this at whatever pace you want, or need. I’m not going to push you.” 

Agent Reynolds isn’t a top-notch negotiator for nothing. The man gets hostages freed from terrorists, for God’s sake.

“You set the boundaries, and I will take whatever you’re willing to give. We can ease back. Although I hope that isn’t what you want in the long term, ‘cause,” he lifts one side of his mouth in a crooked grin before continuing, “I’ve got my eyes on the prize.”

It’s unfair, she knows, to punch him in the soft spot of his ambition, but she swings anyway. “I never imagined myself with someone like you. Thing is, I’m _not_ ready to be the Michelle to your Barack, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be. Definitely never going to have the Ivy League pedigree.”

Abbie watches him tamp down whatever was his initial reaction to that. Then he just shakes his head, sitting back in his chair and gazing out the restaurant window.

“It’s not my place, Abbie, but I hate the way you were dealt a hand that haunts you like this. You’ve _above_ the circumstances you came from. With your grit and talent, you can do anything. You're already a role model.”

He means well, he _does,_ but his affectionate, impersonal condescension just ticks her off. She’s not one of his struggling mentees. She _has_ risen above her circumstances, but they are _hers,_ a part of her, not a line in her biography for him to tell and take on for himself. To make himself feel better for having it easy. An anger rises inside of her, a righteous rage that thins out into a sharp truth: he doesn’t know her at all, not really, and won’t ever be able to.

“If I’m the poor black girl from foster services done good, Daniel, then I’m no more defined by that than you are by your privilege.”

“Baby, that’s not what I meant.” He looks out the window again and sighs audibly.

“No, it’s not. But it is what you—”

The waiter appears then and slinks away just as quickly when he catches Daniel’s eye. The pause is enough to deflate some of her anger, and she decides to take a different approach.

“I like you so much, I really do. More than I’ve liked a guy in a long time.” It hurts to say because it’s a truth as sharp as the realization he’ll never be able to know her. “Still, you’ve got everything planned out, and I’m not there yet. And I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not really me you’re looking for.”

He folds his arms across his chest. She’s going to miss those arms; he put them to good use. “Why do you keep selling yourself short?”

“No. One person in the world gets to say that to me. My sister. That’s it.”

“All right, I guess I’m lost on how to be supportive.” He rocks his spoon against the table. Nerves.

“This has been fun—amazing. But for more than that, it’s gotta be right, you know?”

“I thought it was, Abbie.”

She smiles at him, a little sadly, but hopefully with enough fondness that he knows she’s not just being cruel. “Not used to not getting what you want, Daniel Reynolds?”

“Damn right, Abigail Mills.”

They keep lunch as planned, talk about her critiques of the training she’s received. When they’ve finished, he helps her collect the few things she’s left at his place. 

She doesn’t cry until she’s in her stairwell. There, for the first time since leaving Sleepy Hollow behind, she wants nothing more than to go home.


	4. Chapter 4

**4\. Abbie.**

The thing about Daniel Reynolds is that he’s a stand-up guy. A really _generous_ stand-up guy.

Two weeks after they break up, he texts Abbie with a photo of a spread of tickets for the first game of the Nationals vs. Mets series on Sunday.

 _you in y/y?_ He adds.

_ofc but not rooting for the nats_

When she meets him and his friends—a ten-member group of men and women who look straight out of central casting—outside the gates at Nationals Park, Daniel introduces her all around, carefully calling her a “great friend” rather than an ex. It makes her wonder vaguely if the other women he introduces as friends are in the same boat.

But it’s all so smooth, she just goes along with it until he’s waving over a tall guy in sunglasses and a Mets cap.

Daniel tries to keep a straight face as the other man approaches. “Had to invite another fan of the los—I mean, _visitors_ , so you wouldn’t feel all alone.”

“Alex,” he says, clapping the grinning newcomer on the back, “This is Abbie. Force of nature, native New Yorker, FBI. Don’t ask her about her work.”

Alex extends a hand to Abbie, flashing a really nice smile.

“Abbie,” Daniel continues, “Alex. Loves the Mets, sci-fi, and statistics. Whoops everyone’s asses in pick-up soccer. Luckily, we only ever get together for b-ball.”

Alex laughs; he’s got a lightness Daniel doesn’t. “Thanks for outing me as a nerd in front of a pretty girl, _bro._ ”

Her ex stage-whispers to his friend, trying to hold in his own laughter, “I was _trying_ to avoid outing you as a Bostonian.”

“The hell does a man from Boston end up a Mets fan?” Abbie interjects.

Alex shakes his head. “Ignore DR. Anyway, my dad grew up in Queens. And, hey, baseball fans in Boston hate the Yankees more than they love the Red Sox.”

It’s a set-up, obviously, but Abbie can’t force herself to care. She’s not going to worry about Daniel’s intentions, either, whether he’s taken her on as a charity case, or if this is just his MO—to make everything a win-win. She suspects, with some admiration, that it’s indeed the latter.

They don’t linger long. Daniel rounds them all up and ushers them through the gates. Once through, she feels a hand land on her shoulder.

“Not sure how he managed to find another Mets fan for this, but I’m glad he found you.”

“Yeah? It’ll be even better when we win.”

She sits next to him at the end of their row. So what if she’s actually eager for this?

Team solidarity.

* * *

This time, Abbie is clear from the get-go that she’s not ready for a commitment.

Over their ramen take-out, Alex looks absolutely relieved.

“What?" 

“You’re fucking awesome, and I want to explore whatever’s happening between us.” He stares down at his paper carton a moment. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you this, because a little of me even regrets it now that you’ve come along, but I’ve taken a job at Google. I’m leaving DC first of September.”

“Oh, _wow._ Congrats.” She toasts him with her chopsticks holding a thick braid of noodles. “To fresh starts.”

“That’s around the time you get your field assignment, right?”

She nods, mouth full.

“Well, even if our paths don’t cross again, I think we’re going to enjoy the hell out of this next month.”

* * *

Abbie learns he’s got a little brother in jail, that his dad’s Puerto Rican and his mom’s Canadian, that he and Daniel had been freshman roommates at Harvard--back when he went by Alejandro--but fell out of touch for years until they both moved to DC. She learns he likes melt-your-face-off spicy food and spent two years after college illustrating comic books. That his slight Boston accent comes out when he yells. That his glasses make him weirdly sexier. That his apartment is a damn disaster area.

They connect, but she’s glad there’s an expiration date.

She drops by his place the night before his flight to California. They talk around their not-feelings, and finally he boosts her up onto the bare kitchen counter and fucks her one last time.

Later, Abbie tells Jenny: “The sex was great …”

“But he was a mess,” Jenny finishes for her. “I am _very_ familiar with the type.”

“It’s been _forever_ since I’ve felt that kind of chemistry with someone.”

Her sister “hmmms” a wordless response on the other end of the line.

“What, Jenny?”

“I don’t even have to say it to you, do I?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just ... suspend your disbelief a little bit here about the technicalities of multinational banks.

**5\. Ichabod.**

Crane leaves Oxford a rather wealthy man. The university sends him with a driver and some assistant from its great warren of bureaucracy first to London to gain access to his bank accounts, then, after a night, on to see the house in Scotland.

“My apologies, sir, we’ve had to move the money around a bit. As you’re likely aware by this point, the market has been quite volatile in recent decades.”

The assistant, Ethan, is a simpering, chattering fool, and Crane tries unsuccessfully to ignore it as he shuffles through some of the papers Dr. Goodell sent with him. _Demon-bait,_ he thinks uncharitably.

“I am well aware of the vicissitudes of modern global capitalism.” Crane thinks back to the night Sara lectured him on ‘neo-liberalism’ and seizes upon an idea to occupy his unwanted company.

“Ethan, if you please, locate a good barber and an excellent tailor in London.”

Never let it be said that Ichabod Crane doesn’t enjoy a small degree of command.

It turns out the bank is an operation far too _slick_ for his liking (no, he doesn’t stop to think about the mindlessness with which he has adopted the vernacular of his partner— _former_ partner) and the tailor simply takes his measurements and sends him off to a “Topman” and a “Paul Smith.” And the barber takes a truly unsettling delight in snipping his hair to his ears, so much so he’s fearful the afternoon will end in a trip to hospital.

It thankfully doesn’t, and he texts a _selfie_ to Sara, who responds with a series of little thumbs and several disembodied hands he assumes are either clapping or praying.

At the hotel bar later than evening, as he charges good scotch to the room Oxford is paying for and pores over his father’s letters for a few hours, several young women approach. He smiles politely and pretends only to speak German, which discourages all but one. Priya, with her otherwise admirable tenacity, is only discouraged when he says directly he wishes to be left alone. It’s rude--even for him--and he wonders why he even bothers to deny himself at this juncture, given what he's already done.

When the bar grows raucous, he retreats to his room. Far into the night he struggles over understanding his origins, his family.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for in the letters. A glimpse of a humane soul? Of the motives of a father who could only demonstrate his affection in death--and then only through money and property? 

A man not so unlike himself, he observes as he tires, a coward who gives away a very large portion of his new-found fortune to the woman he loves after leaving her without notice nor promise of his return. He should at least inform her he's done it, but the words don't come and he leaves it.

Some humanity, that.

* * *

**5\. Abbie.**

Jenny texts her a photo of a stack of mail.

_fyi this stuff from hsbc keeps coming for you. talked to the mailman today and he said it can’t be forwarded bc some bs re id theft ?? not sure what it is but don’t think its junk_

Unlike her sister, Abbie’s pretty sure they’re just credit card offers.

_open it and let me know_

She turns back to her email. Moments later, her phone buzzes on her desk.

_> > WTF  
_

_> > ABBIE_

_> > WTF_

_> > WTF_

It takes a second for the new photo to load.

Damn all else, her eyes go straight to the bolded “BALANCE” line at the bottom of the statement. 

She keeps looking at it, thinking it’s a trick.

_am I seeing the right thing?_

_> > yep_

_thats a lot of cash A LOT_

_> > yep_

_this has to be fake_

_> > weirder things have happened … do I need to list them_

_> > they all contain the same info btw + there’s a big packet of account stuff_

_ok do you think this is the right phone # at the top of the statement_

_> > it’s the one in the first thank you letter yeah_

After verifying the UK number online and through the robo-menu at HSBC North America—her first instinct is simply that this is fraudulent is muted, and her second that it’s some unwanted Witness-related thing solidifies; either way, the number _is_ for the bank’s special private wealth management—Abbie dials out, already regretting the international charges, and curious as to why they didn’t provide a toll free U.S. number. She expects a long wait on hold to speak with someone. Instead, she’s connected immediately to a cheerful voice with an English accent after a single ring.

“Grace Abigail Mills, please verify the last four digits of your United States Social Security Identification Number.”

Automatically she does, only then registering she's been addressed by name.

“Thank you, Ms. Mills. How may I assist you in servicing your account today?”

This is _Twilight-Zone_ freaky. “So, um, about that account. I’ve been notified that I have a savings account with HSBC with a $500K balance, but I’ve never opened one. Not sure what’s going on. Not even sure how I know I’m really talking to HSBC." 

“I understand, Ms. Mills. You are correct you have an account with us. One of our clients—I’m sorry, I’m unable to disclose any additional information—opened the account in your name some months ago.” 

“Don’t you need ID for that?” She’s tempted to say she’s FBI, that she’ll make sure a case is opened if there’s _any_ hint of wrongdoing here, but she’s hesitant about giving that little tidbit away.

“Ms. Mills, I understand this is rather unorthodox. Again, we can verify all details of your account information if you desire to do so.”

They do. Painstakingly. It’s creeping her out a bit: mother’s maiden name, address in Sleepy Hollow, phone number. They even have accurate voice recognition. Secondary security. Her employer is still listed as the Westchester County Sheriff's Department, though, which, given the other details, is odd.

“Your sister, Jennifer Mills, has been included only as the beneficiary.”

Who the hell has _Jenny’s_ SSID?

“You really can’t tell me who did this?”

“I’m afraid not. However, I can assure you that you are the sole owner of the account and there are no restrictions on the balance. Can I interest you in our services for North American customers, such as a checking account and debit card and personal financial management?”

Abbie shakes her head. Amazed, confused, wholly skeptical, and a little annoyed that despite the Apocalypse having been thwarted, weird things keep happening to her.

“I’ll … think about it,” she says, concluding the call with generic pleasantries.

She texts Jenny again.

_guess its legit? still not going to touch it  
_

_they won't tell me where it came from_

_> > i'll figure out a way to look into it_

_me too_

_> > you're rich!_

_maybe_


	6. Chapter 6

**6\. Ichabod.**

His family had not spent much time at the Dumfries house. It was a small estate, quiet, pastoral, and exceedingly remote, and his father preferred the comparative bustle and urbanity of Oxford, so they rarely traveled north. At least that had been his father’s preference before Ichabod left for America.

From the repository of letters and other papers left to the university, Crane learns his father fell into a dark state of melancholy, writing little—and interacting with the students and scholars he loved even less—once his son joined the army and sailed for the colonies. The elder Crane had retreated to Scotland, only rarely returning to Oxford. He complained regularly of aching joints and fevers.

His own name is very rarely mentioned in his father’s papers, which span some fifty years between his father’s arrival at Oxford as a student and his death in 1790. At first, Crane takes this as proof, confirmation, that his memories are not mistaken, that he was as unloved and as disappointing as he thought at the time and ever after. But then he begins wondering, after weeks of reading the sharp, observant writings of his father—certainly distant, but always astute—if his absence from his father’s records means something else.

On his eighth night in Scotland, alone in a damp, chilly guest bedroom on the second floor of the house—not quite far enough from the drinking and laughter of the tenants and their village friends gathered to _socialize_ —he tears again through the documents.

The one he is looking for, a journal entry, dated the day of his matriculation at Oxford, describes his father accompanying Sir Roger Newdigate, the MP for Oxford, on a day-long exercise to survey possible locations for a canal that might be built to connect the Midlands to the River Thames. All the details are perfect.

Except his father wasn’t there at all, not that day. He was, instead, touring the college grounds with his precocious younger son—proudly showing him the best places to read and the librarians to avoid, warning him away from a pretty girl selling flowers on the street, and, finally, sneaking him to the top of the Radcliffe Camera.

“Why,” Crane mutters aloud, “was I erased?”

* * *

 

The tenants, who are Americans, are only too delighted to welcome him. A Miss Laura and a Miss Carol, although they chastise him immediately for calling them “miss.” _Hippies,_ he can almost hear Abbie’s voice whispering by way of explaining their appearance. They’ve put in a vegetable garden and a chicken coop and canning equipment litters the entire kitchen (which looks nothing like he remembers).

The house may be his, but it certainly doesn’t feel anything like a home.

He explores, avoiding the middle-aged renters as much as possible. They are kind, but have no sense of propriety; whenever they corner him, they are full of intimate questions he has no interest in answering. To his dismay, the house and grounds don’t cough up any additional secrets. He suspects any artifacts that might have been left behind were stripped away long ago.

Weeks turns into months. He buys a computer, learns how to Skype, and watches eight seasons of _Doctor Who._ Although a great lover of books, Dr. Goodell convinces him in one of their telephone conversations to purchase a Kindle; he works his way down from _War and Peace._

He adapts, but the courier van full of packages trundling down the long driveway of the house is one of the more unnerving sights of the 21st century he’s experienced.

When the seasons change, Laura and Carol leave for France, leaving him a dozen chickens and a plot of sad vines.

Soon after, Sara surprises him with a visit on the pretext of delivering additional materials from the Oxford archives.

“You aren’t going to lock me away in the attic, are you?” she asks that first afternoon, pulling her skirt back down and straightening her blouse.

At his blank look, she launches into a lecture on _Jane Eyre,_ the “mad woman in the attic,” and her adoration of _Wide Sargasso Sea._

“So this poor woman from the Caribbean is married off, taken thousands of miles from home by some English arsehole, where he decides she’s barmy and imprisons her.”

“Ah” is all he can say.

She stays two weeks and finds a new home for the chickens. When she leaves, he's glad and hates himself a little for it. 

Weeks more alone in the empty estate and no closer to finding answers—although much more fluent in both British and American popular culture—he arranges for the house to be re-rented, the documents sent back to Oxford, and for a flight home to New York.


End file.
